October 26, 2006

Fucking Brothel Experience

Even the best game theory doesn’t matter in a brothel.

Those of you familiar with the Russell Crowe movie “A Beautiful Mind” might remember the scene where his character, the brilliant mathematician John Nash, has that breakthrough moment at a bar when he realizes that he and his buddies would have a better chance of getting laid if they all went after the less-hot brunettes in a crowd of women rather than if they all made a move for the one extremely hot blonde.

This was more an addendum than a contradiction to economist Adam Smith’s long-standing economic theory that “in competition, individual ambition serves the common good.”

For those of you who didn’t see the movie, Crowe (as Nash) points out that the “economic goal” of each individual was to fuck the hot blonde. But the odds that he or any one of his buddies would actually achieve this goal were estimated at somewhere between slim and none.

Worse, he theorized, was the certain contamination of the remaining pool of less-hot women. As each guy made their move (and failed) to land the hot blonde, all of her friends would then be out of reach to any of the guys because no woman wants to be the “second choice.”

The almost certain net result in this scenario was that all the guys would go home empty handed.

However, if all the men agree to completely ignore the hot blonde and only go after the less-attractive brunettes, the odds of at least one or two of them getting laid increased substantially. Moreover, the fact that the men completely ignored the hot blonde bolstered their chances even more because each of the less-attractive women naturally felt more “coveted” and more inclined to reciprocate their interest.

Makes sense, right?

Therefore, Nash concluded that “the best result will come from everybody in the group doing what’s best for himself AND the group” rather than simply pursuing their own individual ambitions without considering the ramifications of their failed efforts on the other “competitors.”

It’s no surprise to me that such an important mathematic/economic theory was conceived in a bar and inspired by a group of horny, drunk guys. This is where true genius is often found. That’s where we got the idea for elephant polo.

Watching this movie the other night, I had a flashback to several years ago when I and about a dozen other really drunk guys packed into a couple of cabs in Vegas to make the hour drive outside of the county to a brothel. Apparently, calling an escort service or just hanging out at the video poker bar in any major casino wasn’t glamorous enough for us.

None (I’m pretty sure) of us had ever been to a brothel before which I guess explains why we were there. Every guy has to do the brothel “experience” at least once in his life. It’s something you never forget.

I guess I was expecting a glorious Victorian estate with one of those huge fucking patios and a bunch of lingerie-clad whores wandering to and fro with cocktails in hand, maybe some brassy band playing in the background. Or at least a midget playing the piano. Not the case.

What you had was basically 10 or 12 fucking trailer homes that had somehow been connected to each other behind what looked like a standard, 1950s ranch-style home. Picture an intersection in the middle of nowhere with two or three of these exact same compounds resting just off the interstate. That’s what it looked like. There was an ominous wrought-iron fence surrounding the compound with something of a call box affixed to the main entry gate with a buzzer.

Anyway, we all piled out of the cabs (or maybe it was a couple of rental cars or some combination) and went to what the whorehouse called its bar.

I think the bar was almost as interesting as the whorehouse itself. It was by far and away the worst fucking “bar” I have ever been to in my life.

First of all, it was fucking bright in there. It was probably two or three in the morning and it felt exactly like walking into the lobby at my dentist’s office. It felt like an operating room.

The bartender weighed at least 500 pounds. And I’m not exaggerating. His fucking gut hung so far over the ice cube troth that he had to position his hips at a 45 degree angle to scoop ice into our drinks. He wasn’t very friendly either as I recall.

But the worst part about this “bar” was that it was furnished and arranged just like a fucking greasy spoon diner. There were no stools. There were no benches or booths. There were maybe a dozen standard restaurant-issue tables surrounded by a bunch of banquet-style, high-backed chairs. Just about every fucking chair was in serious disrepair. Huge chunks of plastic and foam just fucking missing from the seats and backs of these chairs.

For entertainment, as you drank up the courage to head over to the actual brothel, was a fucking 12-inch black-and-white TV up in the far corner of the diner/bar that was tuned to Channel Snow. And the volume was about halfway up. Thank God I wasn’t on acid.

It was the kind of place where if you ordered a Jack and Coke, you got a juice glass filled halfway with Jack and the fat guy handed you a room-temperature RC Cola. I think one of the less observant and most intoxicated members of the party actually ordered a fucking margarita. The bartender just laughed.

Despite the accommodations, spirits were high. It was a bachelor party weekend. The brothel menu was reviewed. Options were mulled. The proverbial hat was passed to finance the bachelor’s entertainment.

After contributing to the fund, I only had about $80 on me. A rough run at the craps table was to blame. She didn’t know it but my then-girlfriend can thank that bad run of luck for maintaining some semblance of fidelity. Regardless, I was at a whorehouse and I was determined to milk this situation for all its worth. I fancied myself something of an anthropologist, I guess.

I wanted to experience the lineup.

Ah, the lineup.

After pushing the buzzer, the iron gate swung open and the bachelor and I and a couple other guys made our way up the stairs into the main house. The madam was middle-aged and nondescript. But after welcoming us to the establishment, she rang a bell and within 30 seconds about eight whores materialized in front of us from out of nowhere.

Maybe we came too late. Maybe this particular night was the night that all the hot whores took off to go work the video poker bars in town. More likely, this motley group of eight women represented the pick of the liter.

In retrospect, the lineup was one of the best and one of the worst experiences of my life.

The girls are just standing there in panties and bras or corsets or whatever facing four young guys who are loaded to the gills. Down the line they went, introducing themselves, smiling and making brief eye contact. Had someone offered me a million dollars to remember any one of their names, I couldn’t have done it. Not even five seconds after the last girl said her name.

It was fucking surreal and uncomfortable.

Obviously, the bachelor had the first pick of the draft as it were. And I knew instantly which girl he was picking. So did the other two guys in the room. It was a no-brainer. She was the only one within 10 years of our age, weighed less than any one of us, still had most of her teeth and no visible track marks.

He made his selection. He didn’t give a fuck about what was good for the group. He pursued his individual ambition. They disappeared.

This is when it got really awkward. Nash’s game theory was out the fucking window. Actually, it was working against the rest of us now. The tables had turned. We were the “economic goal” now and all the fancy calculators and slide rules in the world weren’t going to save us.

A good 10 to 15 seconds of complete fucking silence ensued as the remaining seven or eight women just stood there. The only thing slim left in the room were the pickings.

All three of us took turns eyeballing each other and giving the shoulder jerk, you know, the “go ahead, you’re up” body language. So sad and pathetic. I mean I guess we could have turned tail and left but that would have looked really bad. Plus, I’m sure it would have required the madam to work that fucking buzzer again. There we’d be, three-deep, scratching at the fucking door waiting for her to release us.

It was grade-school kickball all over again. The worst part was that all of those girls had to have sensed it. There’s no question. And they probably suffer through that fucking mortifying humiliation several times a night. There really are no words. Whatever goes on inside the head of a whore who is passed over time after time after time is something I never want to know.

I’m no Brad Pitt but I’m telling you that I honestly felt sorry for the remaining whores. One gal had to be 55. Another looked like this was her last shift before going on maternity leave. For all I know, it was. There was one girl who had a plump but fairly fuckable body but was a hopeless snaggletooth. There was a black girl who scared the shit out of me. At least 6’4” in her heels, all ass and thighs.

The only thing missing was Rudolph the Fucking Red-Nosed Reindeer. We’d stumbled into the land of misfit whores.

Finally, finally one of the other guys pointed at a girl. They disappeared.

Just as I was going to pick a girl, the last guy made a pick and they disappeared. He picked poorly.

So there I am with maybe five or six whores staring me down and I’m all alone. Remember, I have fucking $80 in my wallet. We knew that roughly anything we’d want to get done there was going to run at least $150. That was pretty much the minimum.

I know I’m not going to be doing anything with any of these girls. So I pick the black girl, the fucking Amazon, because I know she’s not going to put up with any of my bullshit. As soon as she finds out I only have four 20s in my wallet, she’s going to run my ass out of there as fast as she can drag me. And that’s exactly what I’m praying for at this point.

Down the hall through the labyrinth of trailers we go. Small talk. Where you from? What’s your name? What are you looking to do?

We get to her “office” which is basically a small mobile home bedroom with an enormous fucking bed that takes up a good 92 percent of the space. I remember tons of pillows, a shitload of vibrators and lube and condoms all over the place.

She asked me how much I wanted to spend and I actually lied and said $100. If she had taken me up on the deal, I would have had a real problem.

This news irked her considerably. She said she couldn’t help me for $100 and I told her that was all I had.

She got up, grabbed my wrist and walked me back down the same hallway we had traversed just 3 minutes early, yelling “I don’t know anyone in this house that’s going to fuck for $100.”

It’s hard to say whether she was screaming this LOUDLY to protest the insulting offer I had submitted or to advertise a potential opportunity for the fucking half woman-half goat prostitute they had hidden away in some back room.

Either way, I was walked to the front door and buzzed the fuck out of there. I was the lucky one.